Grovelling
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: Chance flies to London, determined to get Ilsa back and finds he has a lot of grovelling to do.


A shaky hand barely managed to fumble around the inside pocket of his jacket and produce a plane ticket to give to the gate attendant. Shadows lingered in his tired oceanic eyes, speaking of his exhaustion and of his pain. He hasn't slept in days - evidenced by the dark bruises that form shadowed rings around his eyes. His clothes are disheveled and smell of sweat and whiskey; his face is scruffy, a three-day stubble clinging stubbornly to his face and the thick haze of alcohol, exhaustion and pain cloud his mind with confusion, driving him to the point of wondering if he's even at the right gate. It's painfully obvious he's half-drunk but the desperate look that had taken up residence on his face when he begged the clerk at the ticket desk for the next available flight to London, must have evoked some sort of sympathy because even though she shouldn't, the attendant lets him through anyway.

He hasn't dealt with it.

Her leaving, that is. He hasn't dealt with it. He knows that he hasn't. He can't deal with it, at least not until he knows for sure he's done his best to get her back. If he had beg, plead and apologize a thousand times to get her back than he would. If he had to grovel until she decides to put him out of his misery than that's what he'll do but he can't forget about her; he can't fight his demons until he knows for sure she's either in or out of his life for good. He wants her in his life permanently but he knows that it's her choice and he can't take that choice away from her, no matter how much he might want too. If she wants to stay, he'll respect her decision but he won't promise to go home and not drown himself in cheap liquor until her memory is burned away by alcohol and his mind is nothing but a thick fog of alcohol and jet-lag. The prospect of returning to San Francisco without her was grim and one he preferred not to think about.

He needed her to listen this time because maybe if she listened, he could finally say what he's been needing to say since that morning in his loft when it all fell apart. He never had a chance to say anything that might have changed her mind about leaving because she was already gone. He hadn't been able to forget that night; the taste of her breath, the feel of her inky curls in between his fingers and the noises she made that reached his ears as he helped her forget. Despite everything, he still hadn't been able to say everything that he wanted too and the weight of it was crushing him. She needed to hear it and he needed to say it. That's all that mattered to him right now.

_"Just make it go away." _

She had pleaded with him to make the pain of everything that had happened to her go away. She wanted him to make it go away and give them both the physical and emotional release they needed. A long, exhausting but satisfying night had come to head the next morning when he hadn't been very open with her. He had pushed her away instead of pulling her closer like he should have done. They were closer than him and Katherine had ever dreamed of being. Maybe that's why he had screwed up. The memory of Katherine had brought his guard back up and instead of just admitting it to her, he drove her away and turned to the one thing he knew would burn the memories out of his mind.

Liquor.

The hangover from hell still lingered as a constant, throbbing reminder of just what in the hell he had done in the five days since she had left. That bottle of whiskey had been cheap and the taste left something to be desired but the affect it had on him was what he was after and he achieved it with ease - and another bottle of that same whiskey. Winston, Guerrero...hell, even Ames had tried to convince him to stop drinking himself away and do something. He just couldn't do it. He couldn't just go on with his life like nothing had happened. It didn't work that way.

Which is why he's currently trying, in vain, to make himself comfortable despite the discomfort of coach seats. His cell phone is powered down and in his pocket and his seat belt is fastened across his lap. The knowledge that he'll soon be in London is the only keeping him sane at this point. A little investigating had given him Ilsa's London address and the best way to get to his location. Some pleading and a generous tip to the woman at the ticket desk had gotten him the last seat on the first available flight to London - his own personal comfort disregarded in favor of getting to his destination.

The discomfort of his seat is the last thing on his mind as he falls into a restless sleep, hoping to pass some time until the plane touches down in London. He's eager to get to London even though he knows he has a lot of work to do when he gets there. He's not sure how long he managed to sleep before the flight attendant's voice woke him with the order to return his seat to the full upright position and put his seatbelt back on. The screech of the tires on the runway follows and he's not sure whether to laugh or cry as anxiety knots in his stomach.

He's in London.

xxx

"Ilsa?" Connie's soft voice reverberates in her sister-in-law's bedroom as she carefully walks through the door with a tray in her hand. A plate with Ilsa's favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs, lightly buttered toast and fresh fruit sits on the tray along with a tall glass of cold orange juice. The woman hasn't eaten for days and protest though she may try, Connie was determined to get some sort of solid food in her stomach. "Ilsa, are you awake?"

Dark chocolate eyes barely flicker away from the dreary sight outside of the window. It's all black clouds and a cold slush of rain and ice, just as it had been since she came back. She's propped up against the headboard, her long pajama clad legs pulled up to her chest with her toes tucked under the warm sheets. Her arms are wrapped around her legs and her cheek rests on her knees, head angled slightly to give her a better view of the depressing view outside. Connie can only guess that the depressing weather matches Ilsa's mood and that's why she's so fascinated by the sight of the storm - the same kind of storm that came through every year, sometimes multiple times a year.

"Ilsa," Connie eases herself down onto the bed and extends the tray toward Ilsa, gently offering her the tray of food. "You have to eat."

The ringing doorbell pulls Connie away from her quest to get Ilsa to eat. She's not sure who would be visiting her sister-in-law in this dreary weather and she wants to think it's nobody important but considering the business that Ilsa runs, that's more than likely not the case. The sight that greets her is enough to send both of dark eyebrows heavenward - which if she's not mistaken, is the general direction his eyes seem to be. Although she can't say what exacly posesses her to let _him _in, she knows that Ilsa'll have her head served on a silver platter when she finds out.

"Mister Chance," Her dark eyes narrow suspiciously upon seeing the man that had thrown her sister-in-law into utter turmoil. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to Ilsa." His voice is thick, harsh and raspy - a dark contrast to the light rasp of his usual tenor.

"Well Ilsa doesn't want to talk to you." She's almost certain her sister-in-law would be serving them both up if she even thought of letting Chance get up the stairs to Ilsa's bedroom. "If she finds out you're here, she'll 'ave both our heads. I suggest you leave, then."

"No. I have to make things right." His raspy growl draws her eyes back to an unnatural width. She's never heard him use such a harsh tone with anyone, let alone a woman. His eyes, once a bright oceanic blue, are now dark and stormy, flickering like lightning as a storm of emotions rages in his head. The emotion that's most prominent, the one that flickers in his eyes the most is the one she least expected.

Pain.

There's something about the pain that flickers in his eyes that makes her realize he's being sincere. He genuinely wants to make things right with Ilsa. He's in a great amount of pain, more pain than she'd ever seen a guy suffer from, emotionally anyway.

"She's upstairs, third door to the right." Connie's head flicks toward the stairs, locks of wispy, carefully scissored hair tousling with every move. "She's pretty upset. I wouldn't count on getting anywhere."

He wants to tell her that she doesn't know Ilsa like he does but he doesn't have any right to say this and he knows it. Ilsa was no longer a part of his life whereas Connie would always Ilsa in her life because of the one connection to her that Chance didn't have. They had both lost someone when Marshall died. For Connie, it had been a brother and for Ilsa it had been her husband. They would always have that bond. When he finds Ilsa's bedroom, the door is cracked a little bit and she seems unaffected by his knock.

"I told you Connie, I'm not hungry." Her voice is different. There's a certain huskiness to it, a rasp that had never been there before. Her voice had always been smooth as silk and her accent had always been the definition of the word sultry but this, this was different. Her accent was thicker, more defined and her voice was huskier than he had ever heard. Even that night in his bed, her voice had been smooth and sweet, even when it dipped down a few octaves.

"I'm not Connie." He manages to whisper despite the anxiety that's threatening to send his stomach acid spilling out of his mouth. When he meets her eyes for the first time in a week, the pain in them is nearly enough to send him to his knees and he can only manage a barely audible whisper of words he should have said before she had the chance to leave; "I'm sorry, Ilsa."

xxx

"What in God's name are you doing 'ere?"

The slight ruffle of bed sheets as she scrambled out of bed and padded across the thick pile carpet drew him out of his trance and back into the conversation. He's still trying to over-come the anxiety that's knotted sadistically in the pit of his stomach and the shock of seeing her in such turmoil. Her smooth as silk voice sounds anything but and her accent is thicker and clearer than it ever has been. Any thicker and he'll have trouble understanding her but that's not why he's here. He's here to get her back.

"I came to apologize." Chance offered weakly, his dark blue eyes pleading with her to just listen. "I need you to just listen."

"I've listened all I'm going too, Mister Chance!" Ilsa spat, her voice cutting into him like a double edged sword - bitter, angry and ready to tear him to shreds. "I listened a week ago when you said that, that one night meant nothing to you!"

"Hey, wait!" Chance protested, his voice rising a little. "I never it said it meant nothing! You came up with that all on your own, _Il-sa_!"

The way her name tumbled out of his mouth, as if it was poison he was trying to get rid of is like a knife to the back. A week ago when she had been wrapped his arms, the mattress of his bed barely felt for the strength of his arms, her name had been a darkly mumbled groan marking a powerful release that they were helpless to stop. A week ago, it had been a tender whisper in the darkness of his bedroom as he took her to new heights and showed her how to forget.

"You told me, it could never happen again!" Ilsa gritted her teeth, clenching her fists. "What else could that have meant?"

"It could mean, I didn't want you to get hurt!" Chance snapped angrily, more than a little insulted that she would think that, that night had meant nothing to him.

"A little late for that, don't you think?" Ilsa growled, her dark eyes glittering dangerously in the soft light of her bedroom. "Look at where we are now, Chance. It's a little late to protect me from getting hurt."

"You didn't listen to me, Ilsa!" Chance snapped indignantly, "Damnit, Ilsa. Everytime I try to say something, you assume the worst and don't listen to me!"

"Didn't listen to you? What was I going to listen to?" Ilsa's voice was taking a dark, dangerous tone that Chance was growing slightly uncomfortable with as she edged toward him, her eyes still glinting in the light. "Was I supposed to stand there, _naked_, and listen to you rattle on about how it meant so much to you but it could never happen again? How it didn't feel right? How you were afraid of hurting me or was your ego just too big to be concerned with me? Were you more concerned with yourself?"

"Ilsa - "

"No!" Ilsa interrupted him, her voice strangled and bordering on hysterical. "You don't get to say anything now! What was it Chance? Too concerned with yourself to even give a second thought as to how I might have felt about the situation? To hell with me, right? Let's just focus on Chance. Never thinking above the waist, always letting that damned thing that you can't keep in your pants do the thinking for you! Well guess what, it hurts more than it helps!"

"You," Chance growled, gaining the upperhand as he started walking toward her, forcing her to walk backward. "You were all I thought about! Regardless of what you might think, I don't always think below the waist. You were all I thought about when I told you it could never happen again and you know what? Maybe, I was thinking of myself. I was thinking about how bad I'd end up hurting you - more than I already had by telling you it could never happen again. Because if it ever did happen again, I wouldn't be able to handle it next time. One night stands are great but the emotional attachment that comes with them is where I go wrong."

"What emotional attachment?" Ilsa asked him, completely baffled by the thought of any emotional attachment coming from a one-night stand. "You weren't around long enough."

"Mine!" Chance interrupted loudly, glowering at her. "My emotional attachment. I have a bad habit of getting too attached to the women in my life. Maria...Katherine and when I felt it happening with you, I knew I had to stop it so I pushed you away in hopes that I'd get over it."

"Did it work?" Ilsa crossed her arms over her chest, her curiosity starting to get the better of her.

"For the three days my liver was floating in whiskey, it worked just fine." Chance told her, wincing slightly. "For the day and half I spent fighting a hangover from hell, I couldn't..."

"Couldn't what?"

"I couldn't stop thinking that if I had tried a little harder, than maybe you would have stayed." Chance grovelled slightly, "Maybe if I hadn't of been so hasty to end it, than things would have turned out a little differently."

"Well you're not entirely wrong." Ilsa told him, tilting her head as if to tell him that she was going to concede that he was right about her staying had it put a little more effort into trying to keep her there. "But you didn't try and we both ended up with livers floating in whiskey."

"I thought rum was your drink of choice." Chance raised an eyebrow, "That's what you always drank at the office?"

"Oh well I had a drink of some whiskey that Marshall brought home from a business trip before he died." Ilsa shrugged it off casually. "It was too strong for me and it came right back up."

He couldn't help but chuckle slightly as he moved closer to her and reached for one hand. He was genuinely surprised when she slipped her hand into his and even intertwined their fingers. "I'm sorry, Ilsa. I really am. I could apologize a thousand times but I don't think it would make much of a difference. It won't change the fact that I screwed up."

"No, it won't." Ilsa shook her head.

"But what it will do. It will go a long way in me making things right with you." Chance told her softly, "For three days, I sulked and drank my way through trying to manage without you. I couldn't do it."

"You're a grown man, you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself." Ilsa raised her eyebrows skeptically. "You don't need me around."

"Actually, the whiskey bottles on my bedroom floor would beg to differ on that." Chance shrugged, looking down in embarrassment. "And Winston can attest to the fact that I was less than pleasant after you left."

"What are you trying to say, Mister Chance?" Ilsa knew where he was going with it but for the sake of getting him to grovel a little more - for her own personal amusement - she wanted him to say it outright.

"Iwantyoutocomeback." Chance mumbled quickly, only to have Ilsa clear her throat. He rolled his eyes when he realized that he still some grovelling to do if he wanted to get anywhere with her. "I want you to come back to San Francisco."

"And what happens if I do?" Ilsa asked him, pulling her hand away. "What happens if I come back and you push me away again?"

"That won't happen."

"You can't guarantee that." Ilsa shook her head, looking down at the ground. "I can't come back, Mister Chance. Not now."

"Ilsa - "

"I stayed in San Francisco long enough for you to do your job and then some when it involved the man trying to kill me and the woman who killed my husband." Ilsa told him softly, refusing to meet his eyes. "I can't go back there, knowing that you might push me away again. I won't do it."

"Ilsa," Chance was ready to hit his knees and plead with her if he had too. "Ilsa, don't you get it? I know I tend to suck where woman are concerned because I'm horrible at reading them but I'm trying my best. Only you're so damn stubborn, I don't know if I'm actually getting anywhere."

"I'm sorry, Mister Chance." Ilsa shook her head, trying to hide the tears in her eyes.

The salty sting of tears was almost enough to blind him. He knew this would happen. He knew she wouldn't come back but unlike on the plane when he resolved himself to the fact that he would have to accept it, his resolve has crumbled in the time it's taken them to hash this out. He can't accept the fact that she won't go home with him. He can't and he refuses to accept it. A fierce determination tightened the muscles in his back and with one hard shove, Ilsa is crushed between the wall and his body as he crashed his lips against hers.

It's hot, angry and they're both going to be bruised but all that matters to him at the moment is getting his point across. It's a constant game of push-pull between them and now is no different. She pulled when he pushed and he pulled when she pushed. For the first time, it finally felt like they were getting somewhere with each other.

"I'm sorry, Ilsa." Chance mumbled hotly, barely moving his mouth away from hers. "I'm sorry that I hurt you but one thing I'm not sorry about is that night. I can never be sorry about that night. I can never promise that I won't try to push you but if I do...just push back...you're good at pushing back, especially with me. Just push back."

"I will." Ilsa pulled away from him, meeting his dark blue eyes as she did so. She held his gaze for a long while before speaking. "You are aware that just because you kissed me, doesn't mean this is over right? You still have a lot of grovelling to do."

He just laughed as he leaned his forehead on her collarbone, revelling in the soft warmth of her body against his. It was a familiar, comforting warmth that he had missed, more than he ever thought possible. And yes, he did have a lot of grovelling to do in order to make it up to her but that was strangely okay with him. He'd do it, as long as it meant getting her back. He'd grovel for the rest of his damn life if that's what it took to keep her.

But he sure as hell wasn't flying back to San Francisco without her.

* * *

**Four days, a couple of re-writes, a frustrating jab at my keyboard with my fist, ****several listens to every song about heart-break I had in my iTunes library produced this! Dear God, I thought I'd never get done. Oh yea, they got their happy ending - ah well, as happy of an ending as you can give Chance and Ilsa. On the show there wasn't much more than a subtle animosity between them when they weren't fighting..or kissing. The only real hint at friendship is during the series finale when he promises not to let her go. Anyway, my dear friend niagaraweasel suggested that I have Chance go to London and grovel, so this was the result of that :) This one is for you, dear! Anywho, leave me some love Dolls!**

**Love ya, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**

**P.S. Niagaraweasel, if you want to know more about that promise in the series finale, message me and I'll fill you in because I know you didn't get to see it :) **


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